Chapter 310
Johnny Cash stared out at us through the space-time window of two moderately sized posters. An acoustic guitar hung by its neck on a hook on the wall next to a vinyl collection and sound system that looked more expensive than anything else in the flat. Notably, there was no television in the living room. There was a smaller TV in the bedroom mounted too high, but from the dust on the buttons and a complete absence of remote controls, I got the sense he didn't spend much time watching it.
The entire apartment had that cozy level of clutter that's effortless for some and impossible for others. My own spaces were a binary. When I had time they'd always be fastidiously clean, the sort of clean that makes people look at you funny. On the rare occasions they weren't, the accumulated mess always struck me as horrifically messy, with very little in-between.
Miles seemed completely comfortable occupying that space. There was a used plate and World's Best Dad coffee mug in the sink, but the counters were polished to a dull sheen. The books on his shelves were arranged alphabetically, but there were gaps, the missing books strewn around on the corner nook's table or in the bedroom. The books appeared to be in excellent condition—covers treated well and their spines intact—but open a page and you'd be assailed by a barrage of colorful highlights, with fragmented, borderline indecipherable thoughts scribbled in the margins.
Jackson had been working overtime since the moment we stepped through the door. He swept the room with an electronic device mounted on a dark pole, green-to-red readout never showing more than green. He told me later that he was less worried about audio than he was about cameras. Motion detecting cameras were a real issue, as obstructive as they were common, and in the old days a single motion activated pet camera connected to the internet was more dangerous to a would-be trespasser than a thousand other more complex safeguards.
Thankfully, we lived in a time where the internet—and the overwhelming swathe of digital architecture that relied on it—was obsolete. If there were cameras, they'd either be completely reliant on internal memory or recording to SD cards, which, according to Chuck, made the footage child's play to manipulate.
The odd thing was, there wasn't any. Footage, cameras, or bugs.
It made me feel uneasy, somehow. And I wasn't the only one.
Jackson redoubled his efforts, scowl only growing as he prowled the apartment's perimeter. His thing, apparently, involved taking countless pictures, making sure everything remained exactly as it was.
"Can we talk now?" Chuck asked silently, over-enunciating.